


on the concept of a moral state

by Yuki1014o



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Anpac Theory, Gen, This Is STUPID, and I'm not even an anpac, in this house we Love and Respect anpacs, this is literally just badly hidden AnPac propaganda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28517469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: “Your master plan isgo to jail?”“Well it’s more complicated thanthat,” Anpac says, “eventually the state will lose so many cogs and have to provide for so many prisoners that it stops functioning. But—well. Essentially yes.”That is quite possibly the stupidest most idealistic plan I’ve ever heard, Commie thinks, but doesn’t say.
Relationships: Communist & Anarcho-Pacifist (Centricide)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 37





	on the concept of a moral state

**Author's Note:**

> I read some fics with Anpac referred to with they/them a bit back and I now think of them like that and cannot think otherwise. so.

There’s something relaxing about being out of the extremist house. Commie does not mind his fellow extremists, mostly. He prides himself on a level head and calm demeanor, but living with Ancap is akin to having an ant constantly nipping at his ankles and being expected _not to crush it_. Except, this ant makes billions toil their lives away and then reaps their work and fattens its wealth while giving nothing back. This ant is less of an ant and more of a snake, tightening its grip around the proletariat and suffocating out any life.

Nazi and Ancom should make brief reprieve, but just as he starts defending one of them, they go make an _embarrassment_ of themselves. Nazi will start some spiel about _race realism_ and Ancom with let foolishly optimistic ideals _blind_ quem to reality and it’s just—

Exhausting, really.

Still, for the sake of destroying the center, Commie will put up with it. At least, for a while. Today was too much. Ancap started blaring that shitty rip-off so-called ‘Libertarian Anthem’ and it got in the way of Commie’s reading, and so, well.

Commie hums. It’s a little after noon, and the weather is clear, and it is—admittedly—a little satisfying to see lesser ideologies shift uneasily as he walks down the street. Ancap moved them into a small and green kind of town, a place that obviously must not see much traffic from major ideologies.

He flips a page. — _labour to be as one-sided as his wants are many-sided_...Commie knows every word of Das Kapital by heart. If asked, he could recite the whole book exactly. It is less something he _remembers_ and more something that is fundamental to the very truth of his being. Still, reading it is—relaxing. The familiarity of it is good.

That, of course, does not mean that Commie drops his caution. There are few places in the world that he trusts enough to drop his guard within, and this is not one of them. So, when he hears the scuff of fast approaching footsteps to his back, it takes barely a second for him to thumb his page, whirl around, and catch the hand that was reaching for his shoulder.

It’s a smaller ideology, shawl wrapped around their shoulders, colors a pastel swath of white. Their eyes are wide and quite obviously caught off guard. There are loose bracelets around their wrist, printed with a whole host of different symbols, from varying cultures and times and religions—some sort of international ideology?

They open their mouth to speak. Can’t have that. “Excu—”

“Is there _reason_ ,” Commie cuts, voice flat and even, tightening his grip on the other’s wrist, “that you were going to grab me?”

“Ah!” The ideology studies him nervously. “You—I didn’t mean to alarm you! Sorry, I know some people are sensitive to touching. I just saw you around and I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a bit so I was impulsive... I didn’t—I don’t want to cause any harm.”

They aren’t trying to pull away. They aren't physically protesting Commie’s hold at all. And their aura...the way it interacts with Commie’s in unexpectedly pleasant. Smooth and warm, like honey.

“...Really,” he says, doubtful.

“Yes!”

The other ideology isn’t being dishonest. At least, not that Commie can tell. Then...someone looking for alliance? Someone looking for advice? Perhaps another leftist or auth?

“Are you auth?”

They laugh a bit, though it’s dry. “Haha. No. I’m an anarchist.”

That’s...strange. Commie does not mesh well with anarchists. Sometimes, when his aura brushes up against Ancom’s, the overlapped area fizzes and pops like shaken soda. And he gets along with quem better than with _most_ anarchists.

“Anarchist.” Commie raises a brow. “And you haven’t attacked yet? You don’t mean harm?”

“Anarcho-Pacifist,” they clarify. “Or—just Anpac for short.”

Oh. Commie re-observes them. A necklace with the peace sign. Split-color irises in traditional anarchist fashion. Half white, half black. Huh.

“Anarcho...Pacifism,” Commie says, tasting the name. How ridiculous. Normal anarchist settlements have a hard enough time defending themselves. How would that even work? Perhaps it...isn’t what the name sounds like? 

A beat. Two, there. Commie keeps frowning at them.

“Yeah that’s me,” they say, “can you please let go of me? It’s very uncomfortable.”

“Ah,” Commie says, eyeing their wrist.

If he tightened his grip further would they react? How would they protest? If this were Ancom he’d already be smacked away. What is Anpac’s breaking point? If he tested it—

but Commie isn’t a sadist. He is an authoritarian, and he will dole whatever cruelty is needed, but he will not do so unfairly. Anpac has done nothing to prove they _have_ such a breaking point. Fishing for it would be pointlessly harsh.

Commie loosens his grip. Does not let go, but lets it become something comfortable.

“So,” he says, tilting his head, “what do you want? You approached for reason.”

“Just to talk!” Anpac bites their lip a bit. “I heard about you—you extremists teaming up to kill the whole center. Centricide. Are you really…?”

He hums. “Nothing can be done with center sitting in complacency. They’re roadblock.”

“They aren’t—” Anpac looks actually pained. “That’s not—they’re people. They’re only doing what they think is best.”

Anpac talks like a moderate. Although they definitely aren’t center. How irritating. “And next you say compromise? Your ideals aren’t accepted either.”

“People aren’t irrational,” Anpac says, “they can be brought around if you just _talk_ to them. Properly, gently, with no duress.”

History would say different. The Soviet Union might have had flaws but through using force it skyrocketed itself into a global super power. People _are_ irrational. They’re stupid and blind and swayed easily by lies; it takes a minute to spread falsehood and an hour to dismantle it.

The role of the state is that of a parent: caring, with the peoples’ best interests in mind, occasionally uncompromising in its plans for betterment.

“And that’s what you’re doing now?” Commie asks. “Trying to convince me ‘gently’?”

“Yes!”

Commie sighs. “How do you expect to get anywhere like that?”

Anpac pauses. Frowns at him. Huffs a bit. If Commie weren’t still holding their wrist,, he thinks they might be crossing their arms. “Well, we can talk about it! You like theory, right?”

He does. Theory, always theory. “...Da.”

“So we can talk about it.”

Does he want to talk about it? It’s..not bad weather, and he isn’t needed anywhere soon, and Commies _does_ love tearing down arguments. Capitalist, liberal, pacifist—they’re all garbage viewpoints.

Commie snaps shut his book, tucks it away into a coat pocket. “Let’s go walking, then. Convince me.”

Anpac brightens up like the overhead sun. They settle easily at his side. He’s still holding their wrist, but it feels a little like they’re directing him. They’re directing towards the park—a nice place, with tall oaks and duck-filled ponds.

“First we convince a significant population to boycott the state,” Anpac says, “you know—diplomatically. Persuade them, gently with logic. A stateless society cannot function if the people still believe in a state with their hearts. And together we protest _peacefully_. Block infrastructure and all.”

“Uhhuh,” Commie says, so far very unimpressed. Peaceful protesters—they are not nearly so troublesome and violent ones, but they are not ideal, they are not _good_. “And when police show up to disperse this supposedly peaceful protest?”

“We don’t resist!” Anpac says. “No running, no hiding, and certainly no struggle. In fact, that’s the goal. Police officers—they’re passive antagonists. They’ll do their job and it isn’t their fault. We let them do their job and we go to jail. That’s the plan.”

They must be joking. that’s—“Your master plan is _go to jail?_ ”

“Well it’s more complicated than _that_ ,” Anpac says, “eventually the state will lose so many cogs and have to provide for so many prisoners that it stops functioning. But—well. Essentially yes.”

 _That is quite possibly the stupidest most idealistic plan I’ve ever heard_ , Commie thinks, but doesn’t say. And capitalists call _him_ an optimistic fool! There are simple solutions to Anpac’s proposed problem. Just off the top of his head, one could make the prisons undesirable, kill the prisoners, or stop the ideology from the beginning.

Hah.

Still it is...useful, if people think like that. It shows a trust in the state that Commie would love to cradle, cultivate from a single bloom into a garden.

“Yeah,” he says, “sure. That would, uh, definitely work.”

Anpac kind of—wilts. Their colors dim and a frown tugs on the edges of their lips. “You think it’s stupid.”

Anpac’s aura is still pleasant beneath Commie’s fingertips. Calm and soothing. Soft, almost pliant. Peaceful protests are not ideal, but they are better than violent ones. Someone like Anpac—they wouldn’t resist being sent to a re-education center, would they? Integration, reconditioning, relearning.

Just as Anpac said, _persuasion_. Maybe a little more questionable in Commie’s case, but it’s the same kind of principal. They just, you know, _have_ to agree to be reeducated. Like a parent forcing their child into school—good in the long run, if not appreciated in the moment.

“Not at all,” Commie lies, “I very appreciate your view. You’d look lovely in re-education center.”

“...What?” Anpac squints at him.

“It’d be nice,” Commie assures them, and he really does mean it. He isn’t unnecessarily cruel, really. If someone isn’t trouble (and Anpac _certainly_ isn’t trouble) then they won’t require harsher treatments. It’s that simple. “I could take care of you and teach you better. You’re nice, just—badly idealistic.”

“Are you...” Anpac squints harder, “...trying to flirt?”

Commie blinks. “What?”

“What?”

“I’m not understanding.”

Anpac flushes. They look a bit like they want nothing more than to bury into the ground. “Nothing. I’ve—it’s too much time in the polycule. Too much weird flirting.”

“Uh...huh.”

Anpac covers their face with their available hand. It’s a futile effort, because Commie can easily see their ears go red. “Look I—never mind it. You think my idea is stupid because you can think of all kinds of ways for the state to counter it, right?”

“Da,” Commie agrees.

“And those methods—they’d be bad for the individuals in question, right? Forceful and harming?”

That depends. They don’t have to be, necessarily. And on a larger scale they _aren’t bad_. Because ideals are larger than individuals. But—

“...Da.”

Anpac sighs. Looks at Commie with black-white eyes. If he looks closely, he can make out the gleam of a peace sign within their pupil. “Look, Commie, I don’t...I don’t hate you.”

He hums. “Despite supposed moral wrongs?”

A beat. Two, three. He glances at them. there’s a struggling look on their face, like they’re trying to find the way to say something. Sunlight filters down through the park’s sparse canopy and hits their skin, glints over their necklace. Somewhere off to the side, a duck honks.

“You aren’t your followers,” Anpac eventually says. “You’re both the state and an agent of the state. Passive and active. I don’t hate you for existing. Despite the atrocities you excuse...you think you’re doing what’s best. You don’t want to hurt your people.”

Obviously. “...Right,” he says, unsure as to where Anpac is going.

“In your ideal state, none of your people would be being harmed. For you—forced maybe, but not harmed. Yeah?”

Commie—he understands reality. He understands that sometimes there’s a need, and sometimes the state must be harsh, because the _world_ is harsh. Because there are capitalists to overthrow and industrial complexes to run and some things cannot be tolerated. That does not mean he has to like it.

(In the end, he has to kill the anarchists. Sometime, in the distant future, after a leftist revolution, he will have to kill Ancom. At that stage the world will be molten, and it cannot be shaped wrong. But that is still—not ideal. He does not have to like it.)

“Of course,” Commie says, because if there were a future where harming any of his people was not necessary, then he would work his way there relentlessly. “Ideal state would—not have to harm. True communism has never been tried.”

Anpac smiles at him like they’re proud. Digs into their pocket and brings out a candy. Caramel. Presses it into Commie’s free hand. And he suddenly feels—self conscious, almost. Inexplicably.

It occurs to him, then, that despite their idealism Anarcho-Pacifism is _old_. Ancient. Older than the hills and the graves and any state at all. Anarchism has existed ever since the will not to be subjugated has existed. Pacifism has existed ever since the desire _not to harm_ has existed. Anpac was born from that.

Commie...was born from revolution. Was born from the will of the people. Bloomed in tandem with the Spring of Nations and Springtime of the Peoples. Eighteen forty eight. He is not _young_ , but he is...younger.

“It’s exactly because of that ideal of a ‘moral state’ that I can exist,” Anpac tells him. “It’s because in your heart you _don’t want harm_.”

“I don’t understand your point.”

“Do you consider yourself moral?”

“Of course.”

Anpac’s eyes glint, steely as the peace symbol resting against their chest. They look at him seriously. Stops moving. Commie stops with them. “And if a significant majority of your people quite their jobs, peacefully protested, sat themselves in jail, and said _we don’t want you any longer—_ would you leave?”

Commie isn’t sure. He doesn't think that scenario will ever pass. But it’s—the principal of it, he knows. Always the principal. He bites into the caramel. It’s sweet.

A significant portion—over half? If over half the population hated the state then that state must be doing its job badly. _His_ state, though? He—Commie believes fullheartedly in the state. It’s a parent, a guiding hand, a caregiver. It serves the people, it provides a framework for people to serve other people. He does not believe in democracy.

He…

He would not directly, purposely, in a good form of himself, harm over half his people with pointed cruelty.

“There is, in traditional communist theory,” Commie eventually says, voice a bit quieter than ideal, “point in which state is no longer needed. That is—long, long time from now. But state eventually goes away.”

It is not _yes_ , and it is not _no_ , but Anpac smiles at him anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Anpac/Commie isn’t a bad ship and doesn’t have to be abusive and I stand by this statement. This wasn’t even a ship fic though lmao.
> 
> dude idk. I’m not even an anpac, I just watched a [great series of videos on anpac theory](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYBwjgcUpbw&t=163s) , and wanted to try writing around in Commie’s head, and for some reason this interaction wouldn’t leave me? Uhhh. Hope you enjoyed I guess? Sorry. I kinda feel embarrassed for posting this genuine garbage. I literally wrote it in two hours. 
> 
> I swear I'll write something actually decent tomorrow


End file.
